Forged in Blood I (46 page)

Despite the cold, sweat dripped down Wodic’s face as he manipulated the controls, slowly swinging the crane off-center, out over the water.

“Keep it close to the dock,” Sicarius said, imagining himself running this way at a not-so-future point.

Gesturing with his hands for guidance, he had Wodic lower the trap through the ice and into the water, inch by inch. At one point, he made Wodic halt to open a hatch on the side. It had been sealing a hole less than two feet wide in one of the walls. To the men’s bemusement, he’d already tested it, ensuring he could squirm out through it. He was counting on it being too small for the soul construct to do the same. A larger hatch over a bigger hole in the top was already open, this one spring-loaded to shut easily once a latch on the outside was thrown. Getting to the latch before the prey could escape… That would be a challenge. Especially at night. In freezing water.

This was your idea, Sicarius told himself.

He gave away nothing of his spinning thoughts as he stood on the dock, arms crossed over his chest, watching the huge steel block disappear beneath the waves. He made note of how far the crane hook descended beneath the surface before the trap hit the bottom. Less than three feet. Good. The water hid the hatch and the entire trap, but it wouldn’t be far to swim, so long as he found it swiftly.

Sicarius waved for Wodic to back the crane away, then called, “Mederak,” as soon as the dock was clear.

The man jogged out with the paint can. Sicarius pointed and Mederak made a red circle on the dock. In the fading light, the color appeared similar to blood.

“What now?” Mederak licked his lips and eyed the dead man’s cabin again.

“I suggest you and your comrade either go back to the city or lock yourself in that machine shop for the night.”

Mederak nodded vigorously as if he’d been contemplating the same thing. “The city sounds good.”

He jogged back into the camp, left the paint tin in the snow, and headed for the vehicle lot. Sicarius watched to make sure he didn’t try to take the lorry he’d kept fired up all day.

“Do you need help with the trapping, Mr. Sicarius?” Wodic asked after he released the pent-up steam in the crane and climbed down.

“No. Go with your comrade.”

“How’re you going to get it to jump off the dock and swim in there?”

“It will be following bait.”

Wodic glanced at Mederak’s back. “Human bait?”

“Yes, but there are only two people whose blood it’s interested in.” Technically, it only wanted Sespian, as far as Sicarius knew, but it had trouble telling them apart. “I am one of them.”

“Oh. Are you sure—”

“Yes. Leave.”

Sicarius strode through the camp, stopping only to grab a pair of snowshoes out of one of the cabins, then jogged to the waiting lorry. All he had to do now was find the construct and lead it back here, assuming he could do so without it catching him. The snow lay deeper on the field now, and he didn’t know if the vehicle would be able to outrun the creature even on the best road. But it would be better than running—floundering—across the snow on foot. Or so he believed.

Chapter 19

A
maranthe would have sprinted back to the control room, but she and Books had to be careful not to get turned around in the black maze. If they became lost, who knew if they’d ever find their way out again?

She was letting him lead and almost crashed into his back when the word, “Hurry!” flashed into her mind, along with an image of fire. It was so intense that she gasped and stumbled in surprise, throwing a hand against the wall to catch herself.

“What is it?” Books asked.

“Akstyr, I think.” Amaranthe couldn’t imagine anyone else hurling mental images into her mind, though she hadn’t known he could do that. “Go, he needs our help.”

She raced after Books, trying to shake the image out of her head. Someday, when they had the leisure to discuss such things, she’d let Akstyr know he could tone down his warnings. Books turned left at a five-way intersection and up a thankfully familiar ramp. It rose two stories, then deposited them at the back of the control room, at the hidden door they’d left through earlier. This time it wasn’t open.

Amaranthe thumped her fist against it while Books tried to tease runes out of the wall. Neither method was effective.

“Akstyr?” she called. “Retta? Can you let us in?”

From somewhere up the corridor came the sounds of heavy footfalls. Amaranthe didn’t think they belonged to Akstyr or Retta.

“This way,” Books said. “I think I can find the other entrance.”

Too bad he hadn’t left out the “I think” part of that statement. Amaranthe followed him regardless. She’d done her best to memorize the map, too, and thought she’d know if he took a wrong turn. Sure, she thought, and that’s why you got lost and visited your own personal torture chamber.

They ran around a corner and skidded to a halt, arms flailing, the smooth floors denying traction. A single one-foot-wide black cube floated down the corridor toward them. The small circular orifice on its front flared to life as soon as they appeared.

“Back, back,” Amaranthe cried, though Books needed no urging.

As soon as they found their footing, they leaped around the corner again. A streak of crimson light pierced the air where they’d been. Amaranthe peeked back around the corner long enough to fire at the cube. She doubted a rifle could damage it, but maybe it’d deter it for a time, convince it to float down some other intersection.

As soon as she fired, a second red beam shot out, this one catching her bullet in its path. A tiny wisp of smoke was the only proof it had existed.

There was no time to gawk. That orifice was lighting up again. She ducked back into the corridor, sprinting to catch up with Books. A male voice screamed somewhere in the maze of corridors, a scream of absolute pain. Akstyr?

Amaranthe gulped, afraid she’d be too late to help. She and Books raced back the way they’d come. Facing guards would be far better than being incinerated by machines.

They passed the locked door and raced down a long stretch, rounding another bend. Once again, they were forced to halt in a rush. Two bodies lay sprawled on the deck ahead while two cubes hovered over them, steady beams lancing through the air, burning into flesh, bone, and organs. Amaranthe gagged at the sight—and the stench—but didn’t hesitate to turn around. Books was staring, so she grabbed his arm to make sure he turned too. Though the cubes hadn’t noticed them—or they had but wouldn’t bother with them until they finished their current… jobs—Amaranthe wouldn’t count on that lasting.

“They’re killing their own people,” Books rasped.

Better than Akstyr, Amaranthe thought. “I don’t think any of us are
their
people, not the cubes’ anyway. Mia must have changed them back to what they originally were. Maybe she didn’t know what would happen exactly. The guards’ deaths could have been accidental.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

“What a way to die.”

Amaranthe couldn’t disagree, though it was faster than a lot of ways. She and Books ran back to a ramp they’d passed. This time, she checked for cubes before stepping out.

“If we go down a level, think we could find that lift back up?” Amaranthe asked. They didn’t have many options. “Maybe it’s unguarded now.” Or maybe those guards would be busy dealing with that wall of flame Akstyr had shown her. What machine or wizard had shown up to cause
that
?

“Yes.”

Books wasn’t so eager to charge into the lead this time, and they ran side-by-side down the ramp. On the lower floor, they reached the dead-end corridor without barreling into any more cubes—or guards. Did that mean the men had already breached the control room?

Amaranthe and Books stopped, and he prodded the symbols into existence, repeating the combination Retta had pressed. The lift started to rise, but halted with a lurch. The entire craft lurched.

“Did we hit something?” Amaranthe pictured underwater wrecks, then imagined the lake iced over. What if colder weather had come in, sealing them below? But surely the
Behemoth
would be powerful enough to break through a couple of inches of ice.

“I don’t know.” As Books spoke, the lift started rising again.

Amaranthe readied the rifle, anticipating a chamber full of guards.

Instead, the lift reached the control room, and a wall of fire blazed before them, pouring heat. Amaranthe jerked her arm up to shield her eyes from the intense light and her face from the sweltering air. Smoke filled her eyes and nostrils. She squinted, trying to locate friends and enemies.

A body in a black uniform lay on the floor, the lower half sticking out of the curtain of flames. A rifle had fallen next to him, the wooden stock charred to black.

“Emperor’s warts,” Books bit out, “this whole place is made from metal. What could be burning?”

Besides the bodies? Amaranthe didn’t say it out loud. Too morbid.

“Akstyr?” she called, worried about giving their position away if there were guards inside, but—she stared at the charred body—it might be too late for it to matter.

“Come around the wall,” came Akstyr’s strained voice from the other side of the fire.

The wall? The wall of flames?

Amaranthe trotted down its length, though the intensity of the heat made her want to scurry out of the room as fast as possible. She imagined her arm hairs singeing and shrinking away. At first, she’d thought the flames stretched from one wall to another, but there was a gap of a few feet at one end. She stepped through and found Akstyr kneeling on the floor, one arm down, supporting his body weight, the other outstretched toward the fiery curtain. Sweat bathed his face and stained his clothes. His eyes were red and bleary when they focused on Amaranthe.

She took a step toward him, but halted, noticing black shapes in her peripheral vision. One of the other doors was open—the one that had been locked earlier—and two cubes hovered on the threshold.

“Blasted dead ancestors.” Reflexively, Amaranthe jerked her rifle up, though her mind knew it’d be useless.

“It’s all right.” Akstyr grimaced. “Well, not really, but they’re staying there for now. Something about the heat.”

“They sense that it’s akin to their own output and believe other cubes are already cleaning the mess inside.” Retta didn’t glance at them as she spoke. She stood behind Akstyr, between two floating images, the only ones remaining in the room.

Behind
her
, smoke poured from perforations in the black wall. That view arrested Amaranthe’s eyes even more than the flames or the cubes. She hadn’t thought
anything
could destroy that impervious material.

“The cubes did that?” Originally, Amaranthe had attributed the smoke to the flames, but this was coming from within the wall, something damaged.

“Yes.” Retta’s fingers flew as she manipulated… whatever it was she could manipulate through those images. “They’re not supposed to inflict damage on their environment, just the debris, as they think of us and everything else, within it. Mia altered them somehow. In trying to send them after us, she may have doomed us all.”

The
Behemoth
lurched again, this time the floor—the entire room—tilted five degrees. The cubes in the doorway didn’t react. They remained floating on a level plane while everything around them shifted. Amaranthe wished they’d shift themselves out of the control room completely.

“You didn’t… bring her back?” Retta glanced around.

“Uh, no. Her own men shot her. Inadvertently.”

Retta’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunate.”

Yes. Especially if she was the only one who could return the cubes to their nonaggressive state.

“Why aren’t you putting the wall over there?” Amaranthe asked Akstyr, avoiding Retta’s hard glare. “In front of those two in the doorway?”

Akstyr’s exhausted head tilt made her regret being picky, but maybe he could make it smaller if he moved it, and maintaining it would require less effort. He could block the door, nothing else.

“There were some coming out of the lift too.” Akstyr’s arm was still extended toward the wall, though it was drooping, even the fingers. He couldn’t maintain that effort much longer. “This kept them fooled from both directions.”

“Are we out of the lake yet?” Books asked.

Yes, best to figure out how to do something with the
Behemoth
, so they could make their escape before Akstyr’s will gave out and those cubes swarmed inside.

“Almost,” Retta said, “but I don’t know if I can steer us anywhere. The engines are behind that wall.” She waved to the smoke. “I’m sure we’re not irrevocably damaged—according to the documentation I read, the
Ortarh Ortak
can repair itself automatically, so long as it has time to—”

“Where’re those lifeboats you mentioned?” Amaranthe didn’t care about the cursed thing’s ability to regenerate itself. If anything she’d prefer it to crash and explode so nobody could tinker with it every again, so long as she and her men escaped first.

The irked expression Retta gave her was almost as heated as Akstyr’s wall, but she twitched her finger a few times, and an image popped into existence beside Books and Amaranthe. It was the map of the interior again. Green pinpricks of light appeared at irregular intervals all over the schematic.

Books pointed. “That one’s right above us. Is there ceiling access?”

Amaranthe couldn’t imagine how a “lifeboat” could be located in the center of the ship—most of the green dots were along the perimeter—but maybe there was a tube it could travel through to escape.

“No.” Retta waved toward the door where the cubes hovered. “You have to go back out, around, and up.”

“Of course you do,” Books said.

“I can’t hold this much longer,” Akstyr whispered. He dropped all the way to the floor and lay crumpled on his side, only that one arm still raised.

Amaranthe knelt beside him. “Can I do anything to help? Do you need water?” He looked like a man who’d run twenty miles through a desert.

“Just get me out of here so I don’t have to maintain it any more. Please.”